


Tolkien Drabble Collection

by Evandar



Series: Tolkien Drabbles [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blind Character, Drabble Collection, Dyslexia, Gen, Headcanon, Interspecies Romance, Multi, Sibling Incest, Slash, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. A Kingly Gift - Gimli is the only one in the Fellowship who knows the real meaning of the mithril shirt.<br/>2. Tattoo - After the quest, Bilbo and the Dwarves get tattoos done to mark them forever as a Company.<br/>3. The King's Jewel - Thranduil recognises the Arkenstone, and that's why he doesn't help.<br/>4. Illiterate - Ori writes; Dori reviews.<br/>5. Untitled - The princes make hair braiding indecent.<br/>6. Blue - The hobbits discuss the colour of Legolas' eyes. Only Gimli knows how wrong they are.<br/>7. An Awfully Big Adventure - Legolas and Gimli discuss the nature of mortality.<br/>8. Homemaking - Once the dwarves have built the world anew, one builds a home for his lover and waits for him to be reborn.<br/>9. Purple-Tinted Spectacles - A gift from Gimli gives Legolas the clarity he has long desired.<br/>10. Iron Clasps - Celebrimbor has asked Narvi to braid his hair; Narvi isn't dim enough to think he doesn't know what it means<br/>11. Narvi and the Holly King - A Dwarvish fairy tale<br/>12. Woodland Feast - Legolas' on-the-road snacking draws attention<br/>13. Dust and Starlight - Bard discovers something unexpected</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Kingly Gift

When Frodo staggers to his feet, carefully supported by Sam, and opens his shirt, gasping that he isn’t hurt, Gimli cannot help but let his lips part and his eyes widen in shock and awe. He labels the mithril shirt that glitters brilliantly in the gloom “a kingly gift” before he can stop himself – and tries not to wince as generations-old secrets weigh upon his shoulders and stick in his throat.  
  
Not that anyone bar the elf pays attention to his comment, and all the pointy-eared princeling does is roll his eyes. He thinks, no doubt, that Gimli is merely a dwarf sighing over precious metal – and perhaps he is right, though he has no idea of how precious the metal is.   
  
Or what it means.  
  
Mithril, the rarest of metals, is only worked on by the line of Durin. Only those of direct lineage – the kings, the lesser lords, their children – may shape the metal as they please. It is part of why the cost of mithril is so high – and why it was only ever sold to those who were kings or princes in their own right.  
  
He has known almost his entire life that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, presented Bilbo Baggins with a mithril shirt, and he has known for almost the same amount of time what exactly that presentation meant. It is another thing to actually see it, see its lustre and its quality peeking out from under stained cotton and Aragorn’s splayed palm. It is the greatest treasure forged within Erebor, and it was intended – though Gandalf’s claim that Bilbo had not known its worth rings horribly true in more than one way – as a betrothal gift.  
  
The line of Durin only _gift_ mithril to those who will be joining it.


	2. Tattoo

It didn’t help that Ori looked as terrified as Bilbo felt. The young Dwarf was wielding a sharp blade very close to his King’s arm and the expression on his face didn’t fill Bilbo with any confidence – confidence that was sorely needed, as he was next.

A tattoo to commemorate their Company had been Kili’s suggestion originally. He had looked upon the elaborate designs that covered Dwalin’s head and arms with no small amount of admiration during their quest, and his suggestion had been well-met by all. 

Well, most, actually, as Bilbo – while he thought it would be a nice reminder in an abstract sort of way – had absolutely no desire to intentionally undergo something that looked so brutal and barbaric.

But here he was, next in line, watching Thorin Oakenshield sit calmly, his right arm outstretched on a table, as Ori pressed the blade into his skin. Immediately, red blood welled up, but Ori kept cutting, dabbing his work with a cloth to wipe the blood away so that he could see what he was doing. His hands were surprisingly steady for someone who looked like they were about to faint.

Thorin didn’t so much as flinch. Not until the carving was done and the inking was started. He hissed through his teeth – but remained still – as Ori pressed an ink made of iron oxide and wood ash into the cuts. The skin around the tattoo blossomed red under the excess smears of black and blood, and Bilbo felt faint.

He tried to slow his breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He would not faint again. He refused to. He absolutely refused to, now that he had earned the Dwarves’ respect.

He watched as Oin bound the new tattoo in fresh linen, and Thorin stood – straight back and proud as always – looking almost unaffected by the ordeal. His face, under his beard, looked a little pale, but he did not waver as he made his way to a different seat. Behind him, Ori cleaned the blade with strong liquor and hot water, and offered Bilbo a shaky smile.

Bilbo whimpered. All eyes were on him, watching to see what he would do. Even after everything, these Dwarves were still testing his mettle – though they saw it as ‘presenting him with a great honour as thanks for his services and a declaration of the kinship now between them’. Refusing would be a bad idea, but Bilbo couldn’t seem to get his feet to move.

Then, from across the room, he met Thorin’s steady gaze, and suddenly he could. 

He drifted forward as if in a daze and sat upon the chair offered to him. It was still warm from the heat of Thorin’s body, and he shifted until he was comfortable before stretching out his arm and waiting.

The tattoos would be in the same place on all of them, the same design, to mark them as a Company – as a family.

Ori gave him a tentative smile that he couldn’t bring himself to return, and then the blade was pressed to his skin…and into him.

It was sharp, incredibly so, and Bilbo watched with fascination as the first line was painlessly drawn in blood in the crook of his arm. Then the pain started: a sharp sting that burned and ached as the wound was first blotted and then added to. The corners were the worst, and as the first of those was drawn, Bilbo bit his lip to keep from crying out and yanking his arm away again. But still, he could not take his eyes away.

“Almost done,” Ori murmured. “Half-way now.”

And they were. The tender flesh of his inner arm was red and puffy around the cuts, but they were finished – clean, neat lines forming the Khuzdul number fourteen. He had no real time to admire it before Ori’s calloused fingers returned to press the ink inside. Bilbo couldn’t stop the noise of protest, nor the reflexive jerk of his arm, but he forced himself to remain as still as he could with his whole arm burning from the pain. Spots swam in front of his eyes and he realised that in his determination not to scream he had stopped breathing.

And then it was done, and Oin’s large hands were gentle as he wrapped a linen bandage around Bilbo’s forearm and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Bilbo stood, wavering only slightly, and made it to his chair before his knees turned to jelly and he collapsed into it. He’d never felt any pain like this before, not in his life, but as he watched Fili swagger over to the table and place his arm confidently upon it, he couldn’t help but feel a little pride.


	3. The King's Jewel

It is fortunate, he thinks, that the eyes of Elves are sharper than the other races know, as he is able to regain his composure by the time he stands before Thror’s throne and gazes upon what he came to see: the King’s Jewel.

It shines perfectly in its setting, and within it Thranduil sees the light of the world across the sea. He sees galaxies born and wonders immeasurable, but most of all he sees death and darkness and a world in ruin. He has seen a jewel like this before, long ago, when he was still young and Doriath still stood. His father had bid him to look upon the arrogance of the Noldor – and their downfall – and he had obeyed. He had never expected to look upon it again.

Apparently, Maedhros had not succeeded after all.

There is pride in Thror’s eyes. Pride and growing gold-lust – that Dwarvish weakness – and Thranduil knows that the curse has already set in. Darkness will grow in Erebor and doom shall fall upon it, and he will keep his distance. So he swears to himself as he nods his head to the Dwarven King, knowing well it is unlikely he will see Thror alive once more.

Even so, he follows the sounds of the screams and the plumes of smoke and fire with his army on his heels. He stares down from the cliff-top, watches the young prince as he waves and calls to him – and he grieves in his heart for the fear and desperation in the young Dwarf’s voice – and he turns away, unable to watch for any longer than a moment. He imagines Legolas crying out with such fear, and what pain it would cause him to hear it, and he steels his resolve: his people will do what they can for the Men of Dale, but they will not interfere with the dragon. They will not fight.

Thranduil has seen what happens to those who fight over the Silmarils, and he will not bring that ruin upon his own.


	4. Illiterate

He takes the parchment offered to him and scans his brother’s writing. The runes are a little crooked, but well formed, and Dori feels pride swell in his chest. He can’t read more than three words of it – catches his own name, and Erebor, and something that could be sapphire or diamond depending on whether that smudged line was intentional – but that just makes it matter all the more. It makes all his work ensuring that Ori gets the best education he can worth every back-breaking minute of it.

“Well done,” he says. “This one is really great.” Ori’s smile is wide and glowing – for all his smarts, he still hasn’t figured out that Dori can’t read. Dori chuckles and ruffles his brother’s hair before handing the parchment back. “I hope you’ll continue,” he says, and he means it.


	5. Untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild sibling incest (Fili/Kili) in this one

It’s not that they’re braiding each other’s hair that makes Dori shift awkwardly and silence the protest that forms on his tongue. They are brothers, and the braiding of a Dwarf’s hair and beard is a task shared by family – especially after traumatic events, such as their capture by trolls and arrival in Rivendell. Indeed, Dori’s own fingers are busy twisting the hairs of Nori’s eyebrows back into their customary braids.  
  
It’s not the braiding. It’s the position – Prince Kili sitting in Prince Fili’s lap with his legs wrapped round his brother’s hips and his head bent close in order to see what he’s doing. They’re nearly kissing; worse, if they’d forgone their breeches they’d be doing something entirely not fit for an audience. He watches as Prince Kili shifts to get more comfortable and in doing so tugs on the braid he’s putting into Prince Fili’s moustache. Prince Fili makes a noise that’s halfway between a gasp and a sigh and that’s entirely too erotic for comfort. Dori looks away, and as he does, he sees he’s not the only one put out by the brothers’ display.  
  
Dwalin has his arms folded across his broad chest and is focussing very intently on Ori – the poor lamb’s blushing and stammering, Dori can tell, though whether that’s from Dwalin or the princes he doesn’t know – so as not to notice the royal spectacle by the fire. Oin has lowered his ear trumpet so he doesn’t have to listen, and for one moment, Dori is insanely jealous of his deafness. (A soft murmur of “Kee” reaches his ears and the jealousy doesn’t seem so insane after all.) He can feel the slight tugging at the braid in his hands as Nori frowns, and he hears his brother mutter “just get on with it” under his breath.  
  
That sentiment is shared more loudly by Gloin – never one for subtlety, that one – who calls out “kiss him already!” across the camp. Bofur’s laughter is cut short, and Dori glances up in time to see the princes doing exactly that. They’re hesitant at first, but soon melt into each other; Prince Kili’s hands dropping from his brother’s moustache to rest on his shoulders. He looks away again when he sees the kiss deepen and a flash of pink tongue, and as one of them moans softly he thinks that this might not be an improvement.


	6. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Legolas/Gimli, so interspecies romance warnings for this one.

It’s the hobbits that he hears arguing over it. Samwise insisting on grey, while Pippin swears on green. “Green like leaves,” he announces, full of ale and bluster. “Like his name. They have to be green, you see?”  
  
It’s the kind of logic that only a drunken hobbit could make, and it doesn’t stand up at all to scrutiny. But it does tell Gimli the identity of their subject. He hears Frodo laugh at his cousin, and smiles to himself. He lingers long enough to hear Merry interrupt with a call of brown before making his way from the hall into the gardens for a smoke and a glance at the stars.  
  
He didn’t star-gaze until he met the elf. He was a dwarf: such things were beyond his notice. In truth, he doesn’t much notice the stars even now. He pre-occupies himself with the way that Legolas shimmers gently beneath their pale light and the way that the elf smiles when he speaks of them – as if the stars themselves are his old friends. Such moments brought peace to him in Lorien, and courage in Helms Deep; now they bring peace again and a longing that can only be soothed by gentle kisses and sighs in the dark.  
  
He finds Legolas perched on the garden wall overlooking the precipice that hangs over Minas Tirith. His long legs dangle over the side as if he’s oblivious to the danger of the fall. His head is tilted back, and in the light of stars and moon and palace lanterns he shines like silver fire.  
  
Gimli joins him and lights his pipe and thinks on the strangeness of elves. He thinks of Queen Arwen and her kin, whose hair is best described as ‘twilight’ in all the songs about them even though that isn’t one colour but many all at once, ranging from black to violet through gold and brown and blue. He thinks of Lady Galadriel and her golden hair and her eyes like snow upon the mountain-top: blue and gold, pink and pale. Elves are the lauded firstborn and close to nature; they are part of nature, and like nature they are both unmoving and changeable and all too vibrant for mortal eyes.  
  
Not that mortal eyes can’t try to define, as the hobbits’ argument has shown. They are all wrong about the colour of Legolas’ eyes, and yet all of them are right. Gimli has seen the sea more than once in his life: he has sailed to battle and visited the Grey Havens for trade in his youth. The sea is brown and grey and green; silver and indigo and black. Most of all, however, it is blue – the deep, rich, ever-changing blue of Legolas’ eyes .   
  
“You’re smiling,” Legolas murmurs.   
  
Gimli looks up to meet his gaze – currently the glimmering silver of ithildin as the moon first touches it; the light foam of crests upon the waves – and huffs. There would be no escaping the laughter if he told Legolas the direction of his thoughts, but that does not mean he cannot tell some of the truth.  
  
“A remembered jest,” he says. “Our hobbit friends were squabbling again.”


	7. An Awfully Big Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is curled by his side, and they are repeating old arguments to each other in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legolas/Gimli in this one.

“I am mortal,” he says, pointing out the obvious as strong, delicate fingers stroke through his beard. “You are not. You can leave – it is best you do before I grow too old. I will not have you see me infirm or weak.”

“I’ve seen you both already,” Legolas reminds him. “It was I who tended you through your last illness, or had you forgotten?” He tugs a little in false reprimand, and the corner of his mouth twists up into a smile that falls far short of his eyes. “And the one before that, and the one before that…”

“I had not,” Gimli says truthfully. 

Legolas is curled by his side, and they are repeating old arguments to each other in the dark. He can see Legolas clearly, lit as he is by an inner glow that does nothing to hide the fact that he hasn’t changed at all in the sixty years Gimli has known him. His hair is still golden; his skin pale and smooth and perfect. Only his eyes have changed – darkening over the years from loss and sea-longing that he’s long put off in favour of staying with the remnants of the Fellowship; with Gimli.

Gimli is getting old and the red of his beard has faded into steely grey, but he still has his wits. He has his hearing as well; for all that his people (and Legolas’ and even Aragorn’s) seem to think that he can’t hear the whispers of old songs and stories that tell him that Legolas will die if he stays. He is torn between pushing his lover away and trying to save him, and clinging desperately – selfishly – to his love because he can’t bear to say goodbye any more than he can to see the sadness in Legolas’ eyes.

Legolas kisses him softly. “My choice has been made,” he says. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

Gimli huffs at that. All these years and he’s still convinced that his elf is half mad, and it is statements like that that make it hard to change his mind. Legolas laughs softly into his beard for a moment. It sounds almost like he’s crying and Gimli tightens his hold reflexively, rubbing Legolas’ shoulders with calloused hands.

The argument is an old one and a tired one, and as Gimli is old and tired himself, he lets it go. “A plague on the stubborn necks of the elves,” he says.

“To say nothing of the stubbornness of dwarves,” Legolas mutters, just loud enough for him to hear, and tugs at his beard again. “My choice is made,” he repeats, and he shifts in Gimli’s hold so that he can look down upon him before pressing a kiss to his brow. “There was no other choice but you.”


	8. Homemaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once the dwarves have built the world anew, one builds a home for his lover and waits for him to be reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOYC/EOYC vagueness ahead.

He builds them a home on a wooded mountain; by a stream that rushes merrily through what will be a garden and tumbles down over a cliff to the valley below. Their home is built back into the rock for warmth, but with large, airy chambers and windows with balconies, and he fills it with furniture carved by his own hands. He builds chairs of uneven height without thinking, but when he steps back, he knows they are just right. He builds a bed that drowns him as he rests in it alone, but it will be the right size when the time comes.

He searches out another for help with curtains and blankets as he lacks the skill of weaving, and trades some of the wood he’d had to clear for them. He builds a small forge, set back away from the house, and crafts knives and spoons and gardening tools. He does not touch the garden, though. That is not his domain and well he knows it; he does not know whose it is.

He dreams at night, in his too large bed, of golden hair and muscled shoulders and the hiss of flying arrows. He makes a bow the next day and carves it with patterns he knows but doesn’t remember, and makes arrows enough to fill a quiver. The quiver itself he makes the day after, from leather he trades a smaller, lesser bow for. 

When their home and their belongings are finished, he sits and he waits and he smokes a wooden pipe as he watches the stars rise. He doesn’t know who he is waiting for, but he knows in his heart that he loves him.


	9. Purple-Tinted Spectacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift from Gimli gives Legolas the clarity he has long desired.  
> Dyslexic!Legolas

The world looks strange through the purple lenses Gimli has given him, but for the first time in his life, words don’t swim and blur before his eyes when he looks at the page. Instead he has clarity and the weight of two thousand years’ frustration leaves him in an instant.

He picks up the letter from his father and tries to ignore the faint tremor of excitement in his hand. The runes are easier to recognise now that they aren’t changing and mutating before him, and his father’s hand is large and clear out of practised consideration. A paragraph in, he realises that he is truly reading – slowly, he will admit, but with an ease he has never experienced. 

He picks up his quill and carefully scratches out his father’s name. It is still hard to write, to remember which rune stands for which sound, and his handwriting is still terrible in comparison, but he thinks – hopes – that an improvement might be noted. Glancing back at the letter – _is that really how ‘Ithilien’ is spelled?_ \- he can’t help but smile. It may be a small thing, but to read with any kind of ease is no small victory.


	10. Iron Clasps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor has asked Narvi to braid his hair; Narvi isn't dim enough to think he doesn't know what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for GenPrompt Bingo for the prompt 'Silver and Gold'.

He runs his fingers gently through the offered hair. He’s not dim enough to imagine that Celebrimbor doesn’t know the implications of what he’s asking. The Elf knows Dwarven culture better than most outsiders; more, he actually pays attention to it, rather than dismissing it out of scorn or misunderstanding. It’s why he adored – _likes_ \- the Elf. Why his _people_ like the Elf.

His hair is red. Almost. In the light it shifts unnaturally between the red of a dying forge and the black of a mine, unable to stay just one colour. It’s an Elf thing, Narvi has noticed. Their appearance shifts as much as their opinions – that is what his kin would say; Narvi just thinks it makes them more beautiful. Like the firstborn should be.

Slowly, carefully, making sure not to pull, he begins to weave braids into Celebrimbor’s hair. Dwarf braids. One for his coming of age, in a distant time on a distant shore; one for his craft, perfected; one for his kindred, royal and hated; one for Narvi – he hopes – beloved.

He fastens each of them with clasps of iron. For all of his skill in working them, Celebrimbor has no personal love for silver and gold, and the only jewellery he has kept for himself is black and dull and inscribed, on occasion, with cirth runes and holly. Plain and dull, not really fitting for one of his high station, but they do suit him well. Gold would be too gaudy, Narvi thinks, when paired with his hair; silver would suit him better – it would match his eyes.

Finally finished, he sweeps the curtain of hair aside and presses a kiss to the back of Celebrimbor’s long, white neck. The Elf’s shoulders relax, his head bows, and Narvi knows he was right.


	11. Narvi and the Holly King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dwarvish fairy tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'AU: Fairy Tale/Myth' on my Trope Bingo card.

“A story, then. _One_ before your bedtime. Now which one – really? That one? Fine. The one about the Elf it is then, but don’t you go getting any ideas from it now. None, do you hear? Right then. Let’s start.

“Once upon a time, in the great Dwarf kingdom of Khazad-dûm when Durin once more reigned, there lived a Dwarf called Narvi son of Norin. He was a miner’s lad, was Narvi, but not one himself. For all – they say – he was as much a Stonefist as there ever was, he wasn’t meant for the dark of a mine. No sir. Narvi had a gift, you see, for stone.

“He lived stone. Breathed stone. He carved such wonders as have never been carved before or since. He was the greatest mason to have ever lived, and he was betrayed by his One.

“Now, Narvi’s One is the Elf of your story. An Elf for a One – now see why I don’t want you getting ideas? Now, the Elf – what was his name? Oh, aye, I know it. Probably can’t say it right for the life of me. Ce-something. We Dwarves know him as Khalebrimbur. Easier to say. Khalebrimbur, then, was the – will you _stop_ interrupting? What did he – 

“He was an Elf, lad. He was tall and thin and pointy-eared, pale faced and unbearded. All Elves look like that. Men say they’re beautiful and they sure as granite like to think they are themselves, but they’re really just stringy. 

“Can I continue? Good. Khalebrimbur was the head Elf of a village of their craftsfolk that lived in the foothills to the west of Khazad-dûm. I don’t know what it was called, but it was probably something poncey and Elvish and to do with holly. Khalebrimbur was sometimes called the Holly King, that’s how I know that; that’s why the story’s _called_ that, if you’ll ever listen. And for an Elf, he wasn’t a bad sort, I suppose. He was happy and willing to trade with the Dwarves. He wanted to make an alliance – the first of its kind – and Durin agreed. As a sign of faith, they agreed that an Elf from Khalebrimbur’s village and a Dwarf from Khazad-dûm would work together on the doors at the western gate of the kingdom. 

“Narvi, of course, was the Dwarf chosen. He was young, barely past his coming of age, they say, when he carved those doors. For fifty days and fifty nights he laboured on them, with an Elf by his side. Yes, that Elf was Khalebrimbur, but no one knew – at first – that the Holly King had chosen to make the doors himself. He was a smith, you see, trained in the forges of Mahal beyond the sea, and he worked precious mithril into a substance they call ithildin – a black metal that looks almost like stone until the moonlight or starlight touches it.

“Typical bloody Elf.

“And during those fifty days and fifty nights, Narvi son of Norin discovered he wasn’t bound to his craft like many thought he was, but to the Elf instead. And in their camp by the doors, they promised themselves to each other.

“Aye, well, probably, but you’re too young to hear of it and I don’t fancy thinking up the details anyhow.

“And for a time they were happy, Narvi and the Holly King. The alliance between Elves and Dwarves flourished, trade was established, and peace reigned the land. But Khalebrimbur – being an Elf – couldn’t leave it bloody well alone. Finally, one of the lovebirds had twigged that one day, Narvi was going to die – Dwarves are mortal, as you know, but Elves aren’t. They all bloody look alike. They could be thirty or thirty thousand and no one could tell.

“This upset Khalebrimbur, which is fair enough, so he decided to try and change the order of things. He took help from a wandering craftsman in the making of rings. Magic rings – aye, the one that the line of Durin had before Thrain was lost. That was one of them. He wanted to give one to Narvi, you see, to make him as immortal as an Elf.

“But it didn’t work that way. That wandering craftsman turned out to be the Dark Lord Sauron, and he was tricking Khalebrimbur into making the Rings of Power. Nine for Men, Seven for Dwarves – aye, you know the poem as well as anyone, no need to say it. Before the job was done, Khalebrimbur realised that he’d been tricked, and he sent Narvi back to Khazad-dûm and made those three Elvish rings in secret. Which is why they’d be the ones that didn’t drive anyone mad.

“Or, well, that or the Elves that had ‘em were already mad. Elves. Hard to tell.

“Sauron grew angry with the deception, as Dark Lords tend to do, and he had Khalebrimbur killed. Violently. And his village was attacked and burned to the ground as Sauron marched his armies upon it.

“And Narvi, who had been happy being mortal because he was – for the most part – a sensible type, lost everything. The loss of his One carved a hole in his heart that nothing could fill. It drove him mad beyond grief until one day, he cast his tools and himself into the deepest mines of Khazad-dûm.

“And so, the greatest mason of the Dwarves was lost. The Dark Lord Sauron entered his reign of power, and the people of the free world learned never to trust a craftsman without his own forge. The End.

“Now go to sleep, my lad, and I’ll see you in the morning.”


	12. Woodland Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas' on-the-road snacking draws the attention of the rest of the Fellowship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for GenPrompt Bingo.

It was Pippin who drew attention to it. Gimli had noticed – he had watched the Elf first out of paranoia, though it was swiftly changing to fascination at his strange antics – but decided not to say anything. After all, if the Elf managed to find adequate sustenance on the road then that meant more rations for the rest of them.

But a Hobbit’s thoughts never strayed too far from the table, Peregrin Took’s least of all, and he seemed to take umbrage with the Elf’s occasional snack.

“You could at least share with the rest of us,” he said.

The Elf tilted his head, birdlike, and glanced briefly towards Gandalf who seemed to be hiding a smile behind his beard. “I don’t think you would like it,” he said after a while.

Pippin drew himself up as far as he could, throwing out his chest and putting his hands on his hips. “I think that’s for me to decide.”

The Elf shrugged. Like so many of his movements, it seemed boneless – almost feline – and Gimli shuddered to remember the stories of his youth that told of Elves hunting Dwarves; toying with them and laughing as blows fell.

The Elf’s hand snapped out, snatching something from a bush. Gimli had seen it done so many times on the quest thus far and yet it never failed to impress him that the Elf barely had to even look to see what he was doing. It made those stories – told by Nori, mostly, as he flipped a stolen blade between his fingers – seem so much more likely.

_“They only look pretty. They’re damn fast and they’re deadly – cold bastards too, especially from Mirkwood. You’re nothing but prey to them, though they’ll lie about it and pretend otherwise. You’re nothing but a Dwarf._

There was a smile curling at the corner of the Elf’s mouth as he stretched out his hand and unfolded pale fingers, revealing a brown spider skittering in panic on his palm. “Wood Elves eat spiders,” he said. Pippin blanched, wrinkling his nose and deflating from his indignant pose.

“That’s…really?”

In reply, the Elf merely lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the spider up with a deft flick of pink tongue. They all heard the crunch of it between his teeth. 

“I have no doubt,” Gandalf said. “That the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would have been less eager to reach the tables of the Woodland King had they known what was being served.”


	13. Dust and Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard goes to Thranduil to discuss the care of the wounded and discovers something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off the quote _a thing of dust and starlight, scarcely stirring_ from 'Nocturne' by Ted Kooser, and it was written for Day 18 of Poetry_Fic's July Challenge on Dreamwidth.

The Elvenking is slumped in his chair; a thing of dust and starlight, scarcely stirring. His eyes are closed and it is only the steady rise and fall of his chest that tells Bard that the blood on his clothes is not his own. It is, most likely, Oakenshield’s, if the rumours floating about the camp have truth to them; the rumours that the Elvenking tried to save his life.

He hesitates in the doorway, tent flap raised, debating the importance of his visit. He is the proclaimed Lord of Dale, ruin though it is, and leader of the Men of the north, but those are recently claimed titles. The King before him has been King since long before the Mountain fell. Bard is unsure if he is sleeping – if Elves sleep at all; the stories he’s heard claim not – and if he has the right to disturb him.

“I know you are there,” the Elvenking says, lifting his head, but not opening his eyes. Bard wonders briefly if they pain him, even as he steps into the tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him.

“I bring reports of the wounded,” he says. 

The Elvenking nods and waves a hand, indicating that Bard should join him. The Elves of the wood are dangerous – they have to be to live in such a fell place, but their King seems different from the lay-folk he has met by the river banks. He seems older, wiser. Colder, somehow. Everything about him, from the fall of his silvery hair to the way he wears blood on his clothes like finery, is more distant than anything Bard has seen of his people.

The King’s eyes open. They are as dark a blue as the depths of the lake, but lit from within with a light like stars; Bard follows the Elvenking’s gaze over his right shoulder, but sees nothing but the blank canvas of the tent wall.

“Losses were few,” he says, and the Elvenking’s gaze snaps unerringly to his face. “On our part. But they will be greater when winter comes.”

The Men of the Lake have no shelter. Laketown is destroyed and Dale has been in ruins for years. They have some food – the lake is always plentiful, and their crops were spared by the dragon, but what livestock they had on the banks has vanished, and if those cattle and ponies fled to the woods, Bard knows they will never be seen again. This is why he is here: to rely on the Elvenking’s charity as he relied on his military power.

“You seek my help,” the Elvenking says, “when it has already been offered.”

Bard exhales slowly. “The burden will be heavy,” he replies.

“War is always thus,” is the response, and Bard cannot help but wonder how many wars this Elf has seen. How many battles he has fought.

The Elvenking stands and moves across the length of his tent to a table. A carafe of wine sits upon it, and goblets, and as he walks, Bard notices him trailing the tips of his fingers over the furniture. It is behaviour he has seen once before, in his mother-in-law when she yet lived, and he swallows his surprise; washes it down with wine from a silver goblet and says nothing but his thanks.

The wine is strong and sweet, better than any he has tasted before. He looks up, past elegant fingers and bloodied clothes, to a face as pale and lovely as the moon. He is a man grown, yet he feels like a child. He has lived a life in sorrow and mourning for his lost wife, but the Elf before him is the most beautiful being he has ever seen. He knows painfully little about his ally – not his name, nor his age – and what he does know, he suspects he should keep to himself lest he lose that alliance.

The Elvenking is blind, and Bard will tell not a soul.


End file.
